


Under the Weight of Belief

by yet_intrepid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Angst and Feels, Gen, Hurt Shiro (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Keith (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: Before all this, Shiro used to be somebody. One of the best pilots in the Rebel Alliance. He loved his x-wing and he trained new recruits and he flew missions, so many missions, until one went wrong.A Star Wars Original Trilogy AU for Shiro Week 2017! Day 1 - Time/Space and Day 2 - Original/Divergent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Butteredonions, author of a fabulous Prequel-Era Star Wars AU, has been telling me for the longest time that I should wrote an Original Trilogy one. So.....here's a snippet of it. I'm planning to write a couple oneshots in this verse, but we'll see what happens.

“Announcing…Akra Ganola, two-time winner of the Outer Rim Carve-Up! Sponsored by Sebeska!”

As the applause swells, Shiro stares at the ground and tries to breathe evenly. His opponent, emerging from the opposite end of the arena, is easily twice his height. She’s got four arms, two of which end in hands and two in lobster-style claws. Each of her hands is holding a laser whip. She shows off for the crowd, building the roar of approval even louder.

“And her opponent, Shiro, champion of the Hutt Purges! Sponsored by Yek Harin!”

Shiro swallows, squares his shoulders, and steps out into view of the crowd. He looks like an underdog and he knows it: a half-defective, barely-charged blaster in his left hand, his prosthetic covered with a glove. But he can use that. He can get Akra to underestimate him, to think he’s cocky, riding on his luck, easy to topple. He isn’t. He won the Hutt Purges by his broken fingernails, yes, but also by pure rage.

A small section of the crowd cheers wildly, but the rest boos. That’s okay. Shiro can live with that. He doesn’t need the approval of spectators, or even his sponsor Yek. All he needs is to live through today and keep finding a way to get back to the Rebel Alliance.

The announcer reels off the rules—this isn’t a death match, Shiro reminds himself; all he has to do is force a surrender—and starts the countdown. The audience yells along with him, like Coruscant citizens at the Winter Fetes as the new year comes.

“Five, four!”

Akra smacks her claws together, shouting wildly in a language Shiro doesn’t know.

“Three, two!”

All he has to do is live through today. All he has to do is escape and bring back the intel—

“One!”

Akra charges him. Shiro stands his ground long enough to fake her out, dodging aside at the last second. He slips under her arms and comes at her from behind, squeezing the trigger on his blaster.

Nothing. He’s supposed to get about four shots out of this, but the thing’s unreliable. All he can really count on is his wits and his prosthetic.

She’s spun around by now, howling in anger, swiping at him with her claws. He ducks again, rolling out of the way, but her laser whip grabs him around the ankle and it’s his turn to shout out pain. It burns through his clothes, stings like hell.

He thinks about the intel and wrenches himself out of the tangling pain. His foot half-gives when he puts weight on it, but there’s no time to pay attention to that. There’s no time for anything that’d delay his escape from this life, and losing the fight would mean Yek’s anger and that would mean punishment and that would mean—

Shiro scrambles backwards, gets behind a clump of rocks placed in the middle of the sand, and hauls in a deep breath. Then he peers out over the top of the rocks and fires his blaster.

This time it works. His aim isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough to land the bolt in Akra’s side, burning a hole clean through her.

She slows down. Topples a little. Shiro presses his advantage, clambering over the rocks to get up close to her. On her knees, she’s still taller than he is, but it’s good enough. Shiro lights up his prosthetic, burning away the glove.

She tries to block the incoming blow, the unnatural metal with its purple glow, but he burns through the claw she thrusts up to defend herself. Part of it shears off, falls to the ground, and she rages, pushing at him, but he dodges her and holds fast and gets his hand to her throat and it’s over, it’s over, it’s over as fast as all that.

The crowd is noisy and Shiro is numb. He hates this. He hates losing, but hardly more than he hates winning. He hates Akra’s fear-blank eyes staring up at him as he holds his hand there, steady, threatening, until the guards come in and take them both away.

And somehow, this time, it feels like the crowd’s eyes on him are heavier. Like someone he knows was watching.

\----

Before all this, Shiro used to be somebody. One of the best pilots in the Rebel Alliance. He loved his x-wing and he trained new recruits and he flew missions, so many missions, until one went wrong.

He was set to pick up undercover agents Matt and Sam Holt from an intel foray, and they missed their rendezvous. Shiro waited. He waited longer than he should’ve. And it was worth it, because he’d gotten a datatape from one of their contacts, someone who rushed up to him in the pouring rain to say the Holts were gone, they’d been taken by the Imps, but here’s the intel. And Shiro swore to get it to the Alliance, but with the Imps on his tail he couldn’t go straight back to base. Couldn’t even contact them without the risk of someone tracing the signal.

So he did the only thing he could think to do: head straight for the Outer Rim and hope to the stars for luck that he didn’t get. All he got was a crash, his ship shot down over some no-name moon where Yek the smuggler found him. And the arena announcements all say _sponsored_ , but they ought to say _owned_. Yek is a petty slaver, a smuggler, a get-rich-quick schemer. And Shiro has made him rich.

“Good enough,” Yek says as Shiro stumbles back into their quarters on whatever planet they’ve come to for the latest big fight. “You keep winning my bets; I’ll keep feeding you. Huh?”

Shiro keeps his eyes down obediently. Nods. He’s learned well enough by now that even if he wins, any hint of defiance will ensure he goes hungry.

Yek beckons for him. Shiro goes to his knees in front of the scrawny Rodian, submits to the band around his prosthetic that ensures he can’t use it for anything but his master’s will.

“Good enough,” Yek says again. He tosses Shiro two ration bars. “Get out of my sight.”

Shiro nods obediently again, gets clumsily to his feet, and backs towards the door of the tiny adjacent room—a closet, essentially—that he’s allowed to occupy. The durasteel door slides up automatically when approached from the outside, but Shiro knows it won’t budge from the inside unless he’s got some kind of code, which only Yek has.

Hunk would be able to crack it. Or Pidge. Which means half of his junior pilots would’ve been out of there in minutes. But Shiro doesn’t have their skills.

“Whatever,” he mutters to himself, sitting down on the blanket Yek gave him after a particularly good fight. He unwraps one of the ration bars and bites into it, then chews slowly.

Whatever. It’s been a long time since the mission that went wrong. Shiro’s not sure how long, exactly, especially considering all the planet-hopping Yek has dragged him through. But he remembers catching a Coruscant-standard date on a holonet program a while back, and estimating it’d been at least six months. How long now? Eight months? Nine?

Shiro crumples the wrapper of his ration bar into a ball and hurls it at the door. The intel is outdated. He knows that. But if he pretends—if he keeps telling himself that the tiny datatape he keeps hidden in his shoe is something worth returning—then he won’t give up on escaping. Surviving.

He has other reasons to go back. Keith. The rest of the junior pilots in his squad. But it’s been months. They’ve probably accepted him as dead by now. What can you do with a friend who comes back from the dead? How do you fit somebody like that back into your life?

When Shiro thinks about it like that, making it home seems almost as bad as staying in captivity.

He finishes off the first ration bar, stashes the other in the corner to save for later, and decides to look at his ankle. For such a formidable opponent, he got off lightly. When he pulls up his half-ruined pants leg, the burn doesn’t look nearly as serious as the pain it’s causing feels. In other words, it’s not bad enough he can get Yek to give him bacta, or even some kind of ointment.

“Whatever,” Shiro tells himself again, as he curls up under his blanket. He’s lived through worse.


	2. Chapter 2

In the dark, Keith creeps into position. They’ve timed this well, he thinks; Yek is renting an individual cottage on this planet rather than a room in a hotel or anything like that. Makes it easier to sneak around.

“Thank you for riding with Lance Cruises Incorporated. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vessel at all times, as we will be breaching atmo.” Lance’s exaggerated customer service voice filters through the comms. He’s their getaway, and he’s clearly bored out of his mind waiting. Or anxious, maybe. You never know with Lance. “After all, if you stick your hand out the window in open space, the vessel’s oxygen will—”

“Cut the chatter, Leo Four,” Pidge snaps in a whisper. Keith can see her out of the corner of his eye, moving into position opposite him.

“Acknowledged, Leo Five,” Lance snaps back.

“Leo Three,” Keith asks, “are you in position?”

“Yep,” Hunk says. “Blocking the front entrance. You want me to shoot this guy if he comes out?”

“As long as you’re sure it’s him, not Shiro,” Keith says.

A pause. “He’s a Rodian, Leo Two,” Hunk deadpans. “I think I can tell the difference.”

“Right,” says Keith, flushing in the darkness. “Okay, Leo Five, you ready?”

“Yep,” Pidge responds, and then she’s darting for the doorway of the cottage. Keith moves towards her, keeping his blaster at the ready.

A few taps, a beep.

“We’re in,” Pidge announces, quiet but gleeful.

“Go into the bedroom,” Hunk directs. “On your left. The door at the back of the bedroom should be Shiro’s.”

Keith meets Pidge’s eyes; Pidge nods at him. They’ve both been waiting a long time for this day.

Keith steps into the bedroom first, blaster ahead of him as he surveys the darkened space. He can just make out the door at the back of the room.

“Go,” he mutters to Pidge. “Go, go, go—”

He keeps his blaster trained on the bed as she approaches the door. Keith would rather do it himself, but he’s a better shot than Pidge, so they decided it’d be smarter for her to get Shiro.

The door slides up easily. Keith casts a quick glance over his shoulder, but doesn’t catch anything besides Pidge’s slight form entering the still-darker area beyond the door.

His heart is so loud he swears it could be heard galaxies away. Shiro. They’re almost to Shiro.

And then Keith’s heart quiets. Stops, almost. Behind him, two sets of footfalls. Pidge and—

Yes. It’s him.

But there’s no time for a reunion yet. “Go,” Keith whispers to Pidge again. “Get him out. I’ll cover you!”

Pidge guides Shiro to the door; Keith backs out behind them. It’s okay, he tells himself, they’ll make it, it’s fine. They’ll get Shiro back to base and—

And then, as they step into the street, an alarm blares. Red lights flash, too, and it takes Keith a second to realize that they’re coming from something on Shiro’s arm.

Shiro starts to falter, groaning like he’s in pain.

“Leo Five!” hisses Keith, as he catches up to them, still looking behind to point his blaster at anyone who might have been awoken by the alarm. “Get that thing off!”

“I’m trying,” she hisses back.

“Leo Two, Leo Five, what’s wrong?” Lance demands. “Are you being pursued?”

“I’ve got cops headed my way,” Hunk reports. “Not sure if they’re Imp or local, but we’ve gotta get out of here.”

Pidge is wrestling with the band, first with her hands and then with her vibroblade. It makes a horrific screeching noise as she saws at the restraint. Shiro is trembling, biting his lip. Keith wonders if he’s about to scream.

“It’s hurting him,” Keith says, urgent. “Pidge, come on!”

With a final jarring screech, the band drops away from Shiro’s upper arm. It clanks to the ground.

“Run,” Keith tells Shiro and Pidge. He runs, too, taking just a moment to grab the alarm and fling it in the opposite direction of their escape.

“Leo Three,” Lance is saying, “come in, Leo Three, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Hunk says. “Cops missed me, went for the alarm. You got him?”

“Yeah,” says Pidge, out of breath from running. “We got him.”

“Well, Lance Cruises Incorporated has got _you_ ,” Lance chimes in. “Ready to blow this popsicle planet?”

“This isn’t a popsicle planet,” Hunk says, audibly annoyed. “Hoth, now that’s a popsicle planet. I hate Hoth. I hope main base never moves there.”

“Cut the chatter, Leo Three,” Pidge scolds. But they’re there, they’re almost there, and when they dive onto the landing pad and scramble up the ramp onto the piece-of-junk ship Hunk haggled for when their x-wings were getting too obvious, Lance has the engines running.

Liftoff.

Keith goes to Shiro, who stares at him in a daze. Hunk, in the gunner’s seat below, is yelling at Lance; somebody is shooting at them. It doesn’t matter. The noise doesn’t matter. Keith could die here, right here, with his arms all tangled around Shiro, and be content.

But he doesn’t die. Lance swirls them precariously out of danger and into hyperspace, and Keith and Shiro are still there, alive, sitting on the filthy floor of the ship and staring at each other.

“Keith,” Shiro finally says. His voice is small and broken.

“Yeah,” says Keith.

Shiro’s forehead wrinkles. “You,” he says. “You shouldn’t…you have important missions. Right? For the Alliance?”

“The Alliance understands,” Keith says. “They’ll pretend they’re angry, yeah, but they’ll be glad to have you back. You’ll see.”

Shiro nods, but he doesn’t seem all there. He’s biting his lip like he’s terrified.

….or in pain. Shit, Keith thinks. Shiro’s ankle.

“Hey,” he says, gently. “Let’s get you lying down, okay? We can have a look at your ankle.”

Shiro squints up at him, still a little dazed, but nods. Keith gets up, holding out a hand to help Shiro rise; Shiro grips it and pulls himself upwards.

“Cabin’s right over this way,” Keith tells him, not letting go of his hand. Shiro is unsteady, though he keeps himself upright without leaning on Keith. “The medkit’s there, too.”

Shiro nods again. He’s always been a quiet type, but it worries Keith anyway. Maybe Shiro will feel better once his ankle’s treated.

Keith settles him down sitting on the lower bunk, then goes for the medkit. There’s a bacta patch, but it’s too small to wrap around a limb, and Keith frowns. Alliance policy these days is that bacta is for emergencies only. There’s been a shortage, with all the old trade routes cut off by the Empire.

He picks up a container of ointment instead, twisting it open. It smells appropriately chemical and fresh, so Keith doesn’t have to check if it’s outdated. There are three packets of painkillers, too, one fairly strong and the others just for low-level stuff. Keith considers, frowns again, and picks up a packet of the weaker ones.

“There’s a bacta shortage,” he apologizes as he heads back over to Shiro, kneeling on the ground in front of him to lift up his torn pant leg. It doesn’t come easily. “Some of our old suppliers got killed, and most of the rest decided it was too dangerous. The trade routes we used to use for that stuff are watched all the time. Uh, this fabric’s stuck, Shiro. Hang on, I’ll get some water and try and pry it off that way.”

He straightens up, ready to dart out of the cabin in order to be back as fast as possible, but Shiro reaches for him. His tentative fingers brush Keith’s arm.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, then swallows. “Don’t leave?”

Keith’s heart clenches at the smallness, the uncertainty of the request. Shiro’s wound needs to be cleaned and treated, but—

“Okay,” says Keith. “But what about your ankle?”

Shiro shrugs. Keith waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. The silence stretches out into discomfort.

“Uh,” Keith says, “do you want me to just do my best without any water?”

Shiro shrugs again. “You can just rip it off,” he says, eventually. He sounds scared.

Keith’s brow creases. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s okay,” Shiro says. He opens his mouth to say something else, then reconsiders. “Just…please don’t leave.”

“Okay,” Keith says. He turns away from the door and crouches next to Shiro again. “Can I call Pidge or Hunk to bring me some water so I can help you? And so you can take some painkillers?”

Shiro hesitates. “Okay,” he finally says, with a tight nod.

“Okay,” says Keith, smiling at him. He presses the button on his comm. “Hey Pidge?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you bring Shiro some water? We’re in the cabin.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Pidge says. There’s a clinking of whatever mechanical stuff she’s working on, and then the call cuts off. Within thirty seconds, she’s at the door of the cabin with two gallon-sized jugs.

“Thanks,” says Keith, taking them off her hands and nudging her back away from the door. Shiro still seems pretty shut down, and Keith’s guessing that too much company won’t help. “Sorry to interrupt you.”

“No problem,” says Pidge. She frowns, clearly wanting to say something to Shiro, but gives in to Keith’s pointed look and leaves.

Keith kneels next to Shiro again, handing him one of the jugs (why couldn’t Pidge have brought a cup?) and opening the other to carefully splash some water into his cupped hand. He dampens the stuck fabric and starts teasing it loose.

“Keith?” Shiro asks, hesitant.

“Yeah?” says Keith. He looks up. Shiro’s holding the jug of water, unopened, and sitting very still.

He doesn’t respond right away, either. His brow creases, and he’s silent.

Keith frowns. “What’s wrong? You need help with the lid?”

Shiro shakes his head.

“Okay,” says Keith. He pries at the fabric a little more, then looks back up at Shiro. “Are you okay?”

Shiro nods, one sharp jerk. And even though Keith has always trusted Shiro, always implicitly believed he would tell the truth—

“Bullshit,” Keith says.

Shiro flinches. “Sorry.”

“No,” Keith corrects, hastily. His heart clenches. “No, Shiro, come on. I just want to know what’s wrong. I’m not—I’m not mad at you or anything.”

Nothing. Just Shiro folding in on himself, arms crossed defensively around his chest. Keith swallows.

“You can tell me,” he says, making his voice as gentle as possible. “I won’t—I want to help.”

“I know,” Shiro whispers. “I—”

And then he shudders and draws in a sobbing breath.

“Hey,” Keith murmurs. “Let’s just—can you take the painkillers? You’ll feel better. And I can get you something to eat if you want, or you can go to sleep, or whatever you want. Okay?”

Shiro sobs again, tearless, and then nods. Keith opens the painkiller packet for him and trades him the open jug of water for the sealed one.

“There,” he says. “And I’ll put this cream on your ankle, and then we’ll be good. Okay?”

Shiro nods again, more determined this time, and takes the painkillers with a long drink of water. Keith smiles at him as he finishes.

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers.

“Hey,” Keith says. “Anytime.”

He finishes prying up the fabric, carefully as he can, and rubs ointment over the ugly, half-scabbed burn. Then he wraps it in some bandages from the medkit and smiles up at Shiro again.

“There,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

 Shiro pauses, even the motion of his breath stilling. “No,” he says after a moment. “Fine—fine for a while.”

Keith raises his eyebrows. It seems wrong to question everything Shiro says, but his answer isn’t as reassuring as it could be. “Okay,” he replies, cautiously. “Middle of the night, huh. You should probably get some sleep anyway.”

“Okay,” Shiro echoes.

“Okay,” says Keith. “Do you want any more blankets? And Hunk might come in here and sleep on the top bunk at some point, if that’s okay. But if you’d rather be alone—”

“No,” says Shiro. Immediate, terrified. “Please. Please don’t leave.”

“Okay,” Keith says. His throat is tight and angry again, angry at everything that taught Shiro this new hesitance and need. “Yeah, I’ll stay. Of course.”

“Okay,” says Shiro. “Here?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep somewhere else, yeah,” Keith says.

“Okay,” Shiro says, “here.”

He lies down on the bed, curled tight around himself, and closes his eyes.

“Uh,” Keith says.

Shiro opens his eyes again—quick, startled. Keith bites back a curse at the fear in the motion.

“You can get in,” he says, instead of everything he wants to say. “Under the blankets. If you want.”

A little of the fear eases from Shiro’s face. “Okay,” he says, and gets into the bed properly. He holds a hand out for Keith, and that’s when Keith first realizes it: Shiro lost an arm. Shiro has a prosthetic.

Shiro’s been _hurt,_ and Keith left the responsible party peacefully alive and sleeping in a good bed.

But he still doesn’t swear. Doesn’t ask what happened. Instead, fluidly, he moves to take Shiro’s metal fingers in his, folding them in both of his own hands as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Go to sleep, okay?” he says, and Shiro obediently closes his eyes.

Then he opens them again. “Keith,” he says, and this time his voice, though weary, is firm. “Keith, I have the intel still.”

Keith blinks. “What intel?”

“From the Holts,” Shiro says. “The mission. In my boot.”

He sits up, pulls off his shoes, and turns one over. A piece of the sole pops out, revealing a tiny datatape.

“Here,” he says. “I—I know it’s outdated. But I didn’t betray the mission, Keith. The Holts—I tried my best. So it wouldn’t be in vain.”

Shiro presses the datatape into Keith’s hand. Keith grips it tight, and then he pulls Shiro into his arms. Holds him, holds him, holds him.

“You’re so brave,” Keith whispers. “You’re so fucking brave, Shiro, you know that?”

Shiro shakes his head against Keith’s shoulder. “No,” he says, “no, I’m not, it wasn’t enough—”

But he stays in Keith’s embrace, sheltered there.


End file.
